By | 5 December 2019

I love my car. Old shoes
aren’t good for my knees and hips.
Two things in life
on which one shouldn’t skimp:
vehicles for feet
and vessels of spine—
he who sleeps well walks well,
but my old car hurts me none.
A reliability to run
capital out of business,
workers out of factories,
(though not in the manner
robots might), and out of crises,
our middle lives. After 100,000 miles,
my car won’t hear me say
“You don’t need to keep going
until you’re 120. I’m not afraid
to let you, irreplaceable, go.”
My car’s a sage,
has signed a do-not-resuscitate.

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